


Lord, Hear My Prayer

by nosmokingpistol



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nosmokingpistol/pseuds/nosmokingpistol
Summary: Marcus prays every morning when he rises. He prays every night before he climbs into Peter’s bed. He says the ancient prayers, born of faith and commandment. He prays the new prayer, born of fear.





	Lord, Hear My Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> This short fic is a mood piece set after the exorcism of Andy Kim and encompassing the scene on the dock.

Ritual and repetition – that is the way holy battles are won. God gives us the words, and the words are strength, and our voices are the arrows that fly them unerringly into the heart of evil. The rituals are consecrated by the Church. They are as ancient as the angels who fell into the maelstrom and they are above reproach. Marcus Keane learned this long ago.

More recently, he has also learned that rituals are not above annexation. A prayer once said is a soothing balm. A prayer repeated becomes a shield. Now there is another prayer. It is a silent, solitary communion with his God. The words are tangible to him. They have weight and depth and spilled forth from the bleak and desolate pathways of his soul that only the Lord may travel. The words are his rod and his staff. Marcus prays every morning when he rises. He prays every night before he climbs into Peter’s bed. He says the ancient prayers, born of faith and commandment. He prays the new prayer, born of fear.

_“Lord, hear my voice. Tomas is your faithful warrior and a vessel for your grace, but he’s reckless and still inexperienced. He thinks his good intent is enough. I used to think the same way until Mexico City. I saw the child Gabriel’s soul fall into the void. You have shown me in your infinite wisdom that sometimes the demon wins._

_I’ve seen Tomas lose himself. If he invites integration again let me hear your voice. Guide me to him and let the demon take me. You see what is in my heart. If he is in danger I would die for him. I would spend eternity in Hell for him. If it is your will, I would take his life rather than be complicit in his damnation. Please, my good and loving God, allow me this sacrifice. Let me be the instrument of his salvation. I commit myself unto you for you are my rock. Amen.”_

_*** ***_

_"_ Yes. I can hear you. I’m listening. Tomas!”

Marcus Keane tried to make sense of the images and sounds inside his head: Tomas’ battered face, Mouse lying sprawled next to a refrigerator. The shrieks of a possessed young man chained to a filthy mattress and a gun in the hand of his brother. He felt God’s presence suddenly rush into him but instead of the healing warmth of forgiveness it felt like a Taser to his gut. He held on to the dock rail and willed himself not to vomit.

As quickly as the cacophony had come it was gone. Marcus took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. The cheap burner phone in his pocket chirped and he retrieved it with a shaking hand.

“Marcus. Can you hear me?” Peter, usually a sea of calm, was clearly distressed and didn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Rose called me. She saw something on CNN so I put it on and– we think its Tomas. There’s a priest being held hostage in a house in Detroit. The neighbors are saying the family had talked about an exorcism for one of their kids. The place is surrounded, they’ve got snipers and—“

“Shit. Oh God, oh shit… Any mention of Mouse?”

“No, but they said a woman called 911. Then the dispatcher heard a gunshot and lost contact.”

“I need to go.”

“I figured as much. I’ll be there in twenty.”

*** ***

Marcus was pacing as Peter sidled up to the passenger dock. He tied the dock line as Peter lifted over two suitcases, one worn and patched with duct tape, before stepping onto the dock himself. He took Marcus into his arms for a brief embrace. “There’s a flight out of Seattle at four thirty, direct to Detroit. You know, the police won’t let us near the place, but with my military--“

No.” As Peter opened his mouth to argue the point Marcus reached out and cradled Peter’s neck. “If you’re with me I will be compromised. Any feeling I have for you will be used against me, and against Tomas. Any feeling I have for Tomas will be used against you. I have to do this alone.” Peter knew better than to push the issue and nodded. Marcus leaned in for a tender kiss. Both men parted with a sigh.

“Here. You’ll need this.” Peter pushed a large stack of twenty dollar bills at Marcus and they were gratefully accepted. “I figure you won’t want a credit card trail. And Marcus? When you can… if you want… Well. You’re always welcome here with me.” _Because I love you, you big idiot, and all of the broken pieces of your heart were mending and sometimes you woke up smiling and it gave me life._

Marcus nodded. "I’d like that, yeah.” He turned and began walking. He was ten feet down the dock before he let the tears come. For a precious, wonderful moment in time Marcus had felt worthy of love and had been bathed in its healing power. He had been able to give love in return, in ways he had never allowed himself. He had felt, for want of a better word, happy. There were days on end that consisted of honest work, a snug cabin, and strong arms holding him as he slept. The fear that had given birth to his prayer had faded, yet he had continued his ritual. Now the prayer had been answered and the fear had returned.

Peter lifted his own luggage back into his boat and hopped in. He didn’t untie the mooring until long after Marcus had disappeared from sight, on his way to find Tomas. He knew that Marcus would give his life to save Tomas. He knew that Marcus would give his immortal soul for the young priest. That night, Peter began his own ritual. It was a new prayer, born of fear.

 


End file.
